


Coming Back As We Are

by triplexpoint



Series: Pacific Rim AU [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, BAMFs, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Friendship, Loyalty, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, TOS and Reboot references, references everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triplexpoint/pseuds/triplexpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You dared us to do better," he says. "7 years ago, in a bar in Iowa. What was it you said? 'Your father piloted a Jaeger solo for 12 minutes. He saved 8 million lives, including yours. I dare both of you to do better.' Well, we did. Seven kills to his five, 20 million lives saved over 4 years. I piloted a Jaeger solo for 15 minutes. I killed Knifehead after Sam died. Protected Alaska. Did my duty. I'm done, Marshall. One hundred thousand percent done, you hear me?"</p><p>Kirk and Spock are drift-compatible. But to successfully pilot a Jaeger, they must trust each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's a damn joke, that's what the Anti-Kaiju wall is. Some Federation bigwigs proposed it years ago when Kaijus first appeared but seriously, anyone could see that Earth needed to fight back, not construct a passive wall and hope the Kaijus will give up (hint: never gonna happen). Jim remembers the worldwide mocking.

Yet, fifteen years later, that much-scorned proposal is now touted as Earth's last hope for salvation. From fighting back with Jaegers to building walls that Kaijus probably see as plywood. They're sitting ducks, waiting to die.

It wasn't like this, at first. The Jaeger program gave Earth hope as the Academy's crème de la crème piloted Jaegers, killed Kaijus and defended Earth. But months ago, people noticed a new phenomenon: Kaijus were becoming stronger. They were adapting. Evolving. Learning how to fight Jaegers. Every few Kaiju attacks, a Jaeger was lost. A destroyed Jaeger meant the destruction of hundreds of skilled-worker hours, thousands of pounds of raw material and millions of dollars. More importantly, however, a destroyed Jaeger meant killed Rangers. Heroes and heroines, their lives snuffed out like a guttering candle.

Worldwide morale began to decline. 'Experts' - idiots who’d never piloted a Jaeger, never seen a Kaiju up close and grappled with it, never made split-second decisions with another person, knowing that the tiniest of mistakes meant death - took to the media, proclaiming that Jaegers were now ineffective. They painted the Jaegers as oversized metal behemoths that had overstayed their welcome.

"Back to the drawing board," these 'experts' said. "We need a new plan."

Not everyone agreed, of course. But the ones who mattered, did. Six weeks later, the Federation announced that it would redirect its funding towards the Kaiju Wall Project. It was a more effective use of resources, they said. As if. All those resources, all this labor - minutes after a Kaiju appears, the wall will be scrap metal. Jim knows this as surely as he knows his own name. And yet he's here in Alaska, toiling through the sleet and wind, slaving away for a few meager scraps of food. Fighting for existence.

The mental focus required to drill holes, solder metal and balance on ledges occupy his thoughts. His aching muscles and sore joints are always at the back of his mind, a throbbing constant. Off-duty, he passes out seconds after closing his eyes, stretched out on his pallet, and sleeps devoid of dreams. It's no life, but it's still better than the alternative - returning to Iowa, where acres of cornfields set against stark blue sky remind him of a time when his family was… alive.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sydney's wall falls on a Thursday.

Lost in the crowd of grime-splattered and sweat-soaked men huddled around a screen, Jim watches the replay: a Category IV Kaiju tears apart two Jaegers before hurling itself against the wall, timing its movements with well-executed punches. The clip cuts to another angle and the crowd watches as the Kaiju's sharp, taloned arms slice towards the wall. Moments later, smoke and rubble fill the screen. Shrouded in dust, the Kaiju marches on, its exoskeleton undamaged.

"The Kaiju breached the coastal wall in 54 minutes." The newscaster’s voice is saturated with distress. All that work building a supposedly unbreakable wall, all for just 54 minutes.

Like that's a surprise to anyone with a brain, thinks Jim, his mood darkening.

"What the hell are we building then?" someone calls out.

"They said it was unbreakable!" snaps another, echoing the newscaster. The crowd begins shouting, a cacophony of voices that reaches fever-pitch, the sound waves carrying to the tops of the wall.

Jim remains silent, as he has for months, even as a fellow worker speaks to him. He acknowledges the comment with a nod, rolling his shoulders backwards. Through the sea of waving hands, he notices a familiar face on the screen.

Hikaru Sulu.

One year Jim's senior at the Academy, Sulu had a reputation for never looking his age. Even after he began piloting the Excelsior, coming back with injury after injury, his youthful looks remained. People joked that Sulu would never grow old. Now, however, with his battle-dented helmet beneath his arm and frustration written in the lines on his face, Sulu looks like a 40-year-old. He's 32.

"This is Ranger Hikaru Sulu of _Excelsior_ ," says Sulu, as though everyone doesn't know who he is. His eyes narrow and he stares straight at the camera. "The Federation decommissioned us last week." He enunciates every word. "I quote them: The Jaeger program is dead. The Anti-Kaiju wall is a promising option."

Sulu shifts his grip on his helmet and walks off. He's made his point. Devastating and efficient, as always. The camera follows him, filling the screen with his bulky armor, pockmarked with scratches and dents. The souvenirs of nine successful Kaiju kills - a Federation record. At the corner of the screen, Jim sees a baby-faced boy, also in armor, talking to another reporter. He reads the news ticker. _Pavel Chekov. Hikaru Sulu's copilot._ Jim shudders. How old is Chekov? Sixteen? Seventeen?

”There will be protests”, says the newscaster, as footage of Sydney’s Opera House, now reduced to ruins, plays. ”The only question is, how strong will these protests be?”

Jim shoulders his way out of the crowd, idly calculating the odds of a Kaiju appearance near Alaska. It's been 5 years since Knifehead, but Kaiju attacks are becoming more frequent. The wall isn't even half done. He gives Alaska’s wall ten minutes. Thirteen, tops.

He walks towards the sleeping quarters. No one's gonna get any more work done - he might as well get a bit of shut-eye before dinner. As he passes a window, out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of whirring blades. Jim turns. A weathered charcoal-grey helicopter descends as people scatter to make room for it. Nothing new. Helicopters come and go all the time as higher-ups drop in for a quick tour of the site, say a few hearty words that flow off tired workers' minds like water from a duck's back and leave, congratulating themselves on a job well done.

But Jim's always had that sixth sense. That gut feeling. Illogical though it is, he knows, somehow, that the helicopter is here for him.

He steps forward and stands in the doorway, watching the helicopter land as its blades decelerate to a stop. A human cavalcade moves forward, bearing paperwork and status updates, no doubt.

A grey-haired figure, dressed in a black turtleneck and black trousers that have seen better days, emerges. Jim corrects his slouch, even as dread pools in his stomach. He walks towards the helicopter and watches Pike descend the stairs.

"Kirk."

"Marshall."

Pike gives Jim a once-over and Jim shifts, suddenly self-conscious. They walk towards a deserted area, their footsteps matching.

"Took me some time to track you down," says Pike, in a voice as dry as the Sahara. "After you resigned, I thought you would've taken the first flight out."

"I couldn't leave," says Jim. Sam died in the Pacific, but Jim came ashore on frozen Alaskan sand with their charred Jaeger. The construction site is safe - far enough from Anchorage's Shatterdome that memories don't intrude and near enough to the shore that he doesn't feel trapped inland.

Pike's gaze is steady and Jim’s skin prickles.

"You didn't come here for a social call, I assume," he says. Might as well get to the point. "What do you want?"

Pike paces the area. "There's a Mark 3 Jaeger. Recovered and repaired. She needs a pilot. Someone who knows her."

Jim's throat tightens as memories hurtle through him. His first trial run - he was afraid, so afraid - what if he fucked up and hurt Sam? They were brothers and they fought well against each other in the Combat Room, yes, but that wasn’t a guarantee they’d be drift compatible in an actual Jaeger. Then the neural handshake activated, they were in each other’s minds, the drift was strong and Jim couldn't imagine anything other than piloting a Jaeger in perfect synchronization.

Jim knows that Pike is watching him, cataloguing his reactions. Jim's never been one for hiding emotions - his face gives it all away. More than once, Sam’s warned him about it. It’s true that Pike hasn’t said anything yet - the Jaeger could be any Jaeger - but the implications hover in the air like a giant fucking blimp and Jim's eyes narrow, because Pike is not saying what Jim thinks he's saying.

"No."

"Kirk."

"No."

”Jim-”

Pike would continue, but Jim steamrolls over him, years of pent-up emotions brought to a boil.

"You dared us to do better," he says. "Seven years ago, in a bar in Iowa. What was it you said? 'Your father piloted a Jaeger solo for twelve minutes and saved eight million lives. I dare you to do better.' Well, we did. Seven kills to his five, Twenty million lives saved over the years. I piloted a Jaeger solo for fifteen minutes. I killed Knifehead after Sam died. Protected Alaska. Did my duty. I'm done, Marshall. One hundred thousand percent done, you hear me?"

Jim hates the way his voice cracks on those last few sentences. Pike remains silent.

"Why are you talking to me?" Jim questions, trying to regain equilibrium. There are better people out there - pilots who aren't afraid to drift with a new partner.

"All the other Mark 3 pilots are dead."

You said that just to make me return, is Jim's instinctive and childish reaction. Yet, even as he runs through the list of Mark 3-certified pilots, he knows that Pike would never lie. Not about this.

"I can't pilot it alone."

"We'll find you a copilot," reassures Pike. "My best person is working on it as we speak."

And there, that's it. Jim's kryptonite.

"I can't," he says, struggling to to keep his voice from rising. "I felt everything. Do you know how that feels? To feel his terror and his pain, to hear his screams, then suddenly, nothing. No noise, no sound, no thoughts, nothing. Because he was dead!"

No. Jim can't do this. Even if Pike makes it a dare, Jim can't. Drifts are dangerous things; if one person dies in the drift, it really fucks up the other person. Jim should know. As far as he knows, he's the only one to survive for more than a month after having his copilot die in the drift. Everyone else either died seconds later, as the Kaiju ripped them apart, or days later, like Jim's father did.

Pike's been playing the gentle father figure, but he abruptly changes tack and Jim feels the atmosphere shift. He walks up to Jim and stands, tall and proud. His voice rings in the cold Arctic wind.

"Haven't you heard?" asks Pike, and wow, Jim didn’t know Pike does sardonic so well. "It's the end of the world. Where would you rather die?" Pike declaims, steely-eyed, his voice resonating with wisdom and authority. "Here? Or in a Jaeger?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few sentences of this chapter reference [Tell Me Your Secrets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/904028/) \- a Bones POV spinoff centering on the months after Sam died and Jim resigned from Starfleet. However, both works can be read as standalones.

"Where would you rather die?" Pike declaims, steely-eyed, his voice resonating with wisdom and authority. "Here? Or in a Jaeger?"

And that's completely unfair, because Jim's never felt as alive as he has when he pilots a Jaeger. Pike knows this; he saw Jim's flushed face and bright eyes after Jim's first trial run in _Enterprise_ , all those years ago. At the same time, the thought of having someone in his mind again, someone who isn't Sam… But then, his survival instincts, honed over the last three years, kick in. He'll have three full meals a day. When was the last time he felt full, surviving off ration cards?

He doesn't have to pilot a Jaeger. Maybe there won't be anyone he's drift-compatible with. Pike can't fault him for that, surely. Jim can be a consultant and advise pilots. Or something. 

His throat constricts - he’ll never lose the urge to pilot.

A part of him has been silent since Sam died, but he isn't ready to fill the silence. He isn't ready for the memories.

Three full meals a day.

"I'll get my pack," he says, and turns away from Pike's gaze, afraid that Pike can read his thoughts.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The helicopter's interior is spare and rugged, save a faded Jaeger Program decal that catches Jim’s eye. He stares at the letters. He's really doing this. He's going back to a Shatterdome. Maybe he’ll even pilot a Jaeger. He avoids thoughts of _Enterprise_ and her charred form.

He straps himself in and turns towards Pike.

"So. Where're we off to?" he asks.

Pike fixes him with a stare.

"Hong Kong. Don't play dumb with me, Kirk. I know you still follow the news, even when you're hiding from life."

Jim concedes with a nod. Pike's always had the measure of him.

"The last Shatterdome, huh," he says. "There'll be good food, right? I've heard the dim sum's legendary."

"Don't get your hopes up," says Pike. "The best ones are in town and they don't publish ingredient lists." He looks meaningfully at Jim.

Jim groans. At Alaska’s Shatterdome, his allergies were a running joke - Bones once muttered that he’s never seen anyone more allergic to random things. Jim doesn't have any of the common allergies, such as pollen, nuts or cat hair. No. Jim's allergies are the sort that no one tests for because they're plain _weird_.Things like allergies to a species of hops indigenous to Dortmund and allergies to some obscure herb from Manila . In short, Jim only knows he's allergic to something when he's already having an allergic reaction. A _violent_ allergic reaction.

(He has Sulu to thank for discovering that herb allergy. It happened during their first month at the Academy. It was the first time Jim stole something off Sulu's plate and it'll damn well be the last time, thank you very much. Who knows what other herbs Sulu cultivates and flavors his food with?)

For the first time today, though, Pike's smiling at him. Jim takes that as a win.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re on a commercial plane now, headed for Hong Kong, and Jim is bored. Pike's poker face betrays nothing but Jim bets that Pike's as bored as he is.

"Your best," he says. "Do I know him? Or her?"

Pike's eyes glint.

"No. I think you’ll find him… interesting."

Now Jim's curious.

"He's Vulcan," continues Pike. "He'll meet us at the helipad."

When he’s not sleeping or pigging out, Jim tries and fails to elicit more information about this mysterious Vulcan.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two long-haul flights later, they’re in the helicopter that will take them to the Shatterdome. Jim stares out the windows. 

"Here we are," says Pike, as the helicopter (finally!) touches down on the helipad. "Try to spot him."

As they descend the rain-slicked ramp, a wave of emotion smashes into Jim. He's never been to Hong Kong, but all Shatterdomes were constructed from similar blueprints. He looks at the Chinese characters adorning the doors and wonders what they mean.

The hangar bustles with people and vehicles. In this sea of perpetual motion, a slim figure, clad in black, stands beneath a sweeping golf umbrella.

Pike's best.

Everything about the man speaks business. He stands rigidly at attention, his eyes fixed on Jim and Pike as they draw towards him. His angular face displays no hint of emotion. His trim uniform flatters him - it nips and flares at the right places, showing off the sharp lines of his body.

"Kirk, this is Spock."

Spock inclines his head politely. Jim returns the gesture.

Nice to meet you, he wants to say, but doesn't. Vulcans rarely approve of small talk. Judging from Spock's impassive face, Jim bets that Spock hates small talk.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They enter the Shatterdome and Jim is immediately subsumed in familiar sounds - the hum of conversation, the drone of machinery and the thump of footsteps. A scuffle breaks his reverie and he turns around. Two people rush into the Shatterdome, moments before the heavy doors slam shut. Wait. Those legs and that ponytail -

"Glad to see you're back, farm boy."

Coming from Uhura, it's more of a pet name than an insult. Still. 

"Long time no see, Nyota," he says. He loves using her first name. Riles her up like nothing else.

"You have my permission to die."

Uhura walks towards him, holding her arms out. Jim hugs her, burying his face in her shoulder.

"You smell nice," he offers.

"Such a hick," she says, but affection colors her tone. She ruffles his hair. Jim grimaces.

"As disdainful as ever," he returns, breaking the hug. "What're you up to these days?"

Before she can reply, someone else hails him.

"Jim Kirk, as I live and breathe," exclaims Scotty, with a grin on his face and smile-lines around his eyes.

Jim grins back. They hug and do the bro-fist. It's been four years but Scotty hasn’t changed, really, except for his gradually expanding waistline.

“We’ve been busy. Uhura here’s been analyzing Kaijus and I’ve been predicting Kaiju appearances,” says Scotty, about to launch into a spiel.

Pike raises a hand. 

"In a few minutes, Scotty. Let's get Kirk settled first."

They pass through another set of doors and they're in the heart of the Shatterdome. Jaegers loom in the distance. Jim hears a clinking sound and turns around. An analog timer is counting the hours since… something. Jim's so intent on the timer that he almost crashes into a supply cart.

"Time since the last Kaiju attack. It keeps everyone on their toes. The scientists predict the next attack will be in a week.” Pike glares at the timer. “Something tells me we’ll get one earlier.”

Jim wants to linger and observe, but Pike sets a brutal pace.

“I’ll give you the grand tour later, don’t worry,” says Pike, seeing Jim's face. "Spock will show you to your Jaeger."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Many pathways and staircases later, they round a corner and there she is, gleaming in the artificial light. Jim leans against the railing and stares his fill, his mind cataloguing the differences between _then_ and _now_.

"She looks new," he comments. 

"She was crushed and inoperable when the rescue team found her remains." Jim's chest clenches. "46.1% of her parts were recycled. 48.4% of her parts were destroyed. 5.5% of her parts were preserved for Starfleet's records. 90.4% of her parts have been redesigned and upgraded to match current technological levels. 9.6% of her parts retain the same design, but have been remade with superior materials. I would therefore say that _Enterprise_ is not new but different. "

Jim knows that Vulcans are more formal than humans. Still...

"Do you always talk like that?"

Spock looks at him. His expression is neutral.

"The phrase 'like that' is not specific. Thus, since I am unable to discern your question, I cannot give you an accurate answer."

Jim makes an inarticulate sound.

"That!" he says, and groans when Spock raises one upswept eyebrow. "I mean," he forges on, before Spock can talk about specificity and Jim's lack thereof. "One. Percentages down to the first decimal place - are those even accurate? Two. Big vocab words."

"I personally supervised _Enterprise's_ refurbishment," says Spock. "Vulcans are also mentally superior to humans. Therefore, I can accurately calculate and remember the aforementioned percentages. To address your second point: I have an extensive Standard vocabulary and I am merely making full use of it. Finally, I will confirm that this is my habitual manner of speech.”

Mentally superior. Brilliant. So everyone on Earth is mentally inferior to the almighty Spock, apparently. Jim doesn’t want to get into a fight his first day back, though, so he just nods and turns back to _Enterprise_.

"She's beautiful." 

"She is aesthetically pleasing," says Spock. Huh. Jim thought Spock would say something along the lines of 'Ranger, beautiful is an extremely nonspecific word.' Maybe Spock just has a weakness for big words.

"Well, I'll be damned. They said you were back, but I couldn't believe it."

"Bones!" shouts Jim, running over to hug him. After he resigned from Starfleet, Jim dropped into a communications black hole. Switched off his phone, stopped logging into his email, the whole shebang. But two months in, when he was feeling extra lonely, he logged in to his email and sent a few words to Bones. He never told Bones where he was and Bones understood him enough not to ask. 

"Ever thought about giving me a heads-up, kid?" asks Bones, his voice gruff. "Made me look like a right fool in front of everyone - the only person Jim Kirk emails - yes, Sulu let _that_ cat out of the bag yesterday - is the only one who didn't know he was coming back."

Guilt washes over Jim. He does owe Bones that much.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he says, ruefully. "Pike showed up, gave me another one of his talks and well...” He gestures towards himself.

"So says the rumor mill," replies Bones, tapping his ears. "So - you good to go tomorrow?"

"What am I doing tomorrow?" asks Jim. He wishes he’d thought to ask Pike.

"You will fight ten cadets in the Combat Room. I will ascertain your mental compatibility with each cadet. From that information, I will select your copilot."

Jim didn’t even hear Spock approaching. Bones' grin morphs into a frown.

"What're you doing here?"

"Asking a question to which you already know the answer is unnecessary."

"Computerized robot," mutters Bones. "Well, you better find Jim the best copilot you can, you hear me?"

"I have no intention of doing otherwise," says Spock. They stand there awkwardly. Well, Bones and Jim stand there awkwardly. Spock just stands there.

"McCoy!" 

"They're after me again," Bones makes a face but Jim can tell he's relieved for the out. "Can't get enough of the country techie. Well, I'll see you at dinner."

Bones fidgets. 

Jim smirks. 

"You missed me, didn't you?"

"In a pig's eye," says Bones, but Jim sees the smile threatening to emerge.

"Hey, I missed you too," he says, throwing an arm around Bones' shoulders. "Admit it, you missed me." 

He turns on the James T. Kirk puppy-dog face. Bones remains impervious, as he always has. He swats Jim's head like he would a particularly annoying mosquito.

"Good to have you back, kid."

He disappears into a throng of engineers. Jim can't stop grinning.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jim's grin vanishes pretty quickly once he's left alone with Spock. His attempts to draw Spock into conversation are a resounding failure and he's relieved when they reach the residential area.

"These are your quarters," says Spock, opening a door. He hands the keys to Jim, who nods and throws his bag on the floor. He's really not looking forward to tomorrow.

"I will meet you at the Combat Room at 0800 hours. Good day, Ranger." 

"Hey," says Jim. Spock turns to face him. "Thanks. For showing me around, organizing this copilot thing and taking care of _Enterprise_. And uh, whatever else you've been doing for me that I don’t know yet."

"Thanks are unnecessary."

"Human social niceties, Spock." Jim instantly regrets the sharp edge of his voice. However, Spock seems unaffected. If anything, he looks politely perplexed.

"I am Vulcan."

He pivots and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 teaser:
> 
> "What's your simulator score?" Jim asks.
> 
> "51 drops, 51 kills," replies Spock. Damn. Now Jim really needs to know why Spock isn't out there whacking Kaijus into a slimy pulp.
> 
> "Why aren't you piloting a Jaeger?" he asks. "I mean, yeah, there's a Jaeger shortage now and all that, but I can't believe you've never even had a trial run in one."


End file.
